Doucement, Venez
by Esteliel
Summary: It is the first Christmas after Cosette has married Marius. Paris is covered in snow, and Valjean and Javert try to navigate the newness of family, and the depth of their feelings for each other.
1. Chapter 1

The air was crisp and cold as they left Saint-Sulpice. In the church, the organ was still playing; the square in front of the church was slowly filling with people, now that midnight mass had ended.

They had lost Cosette and Pontmercy in the crowd when they tried to make their way out together; or rather, he thought, Valjean had sought to escape from the crowd, while Cosette and her husband wold seek out friends and acquaintances to press hands and kiss cheeks and exchange well-wishes.

He did not mind that Valjean had led them out with disregard for such courtesies. His heart was still full of the music and the weight of his thoughts. It was good to stand here in the cold air, beneath a sky that was black and filled with bright stars, and listen to the organ within and the melody of the ringing bells of Saint-Sulpice, and hear in the distance the answering bells of Notre-Dame, of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, of Saint-Séverin.

Valjean was silent and distant, but distant in a way that made him turn towards Valjean and look at him with wonder and the humble helplessness that always arose when he contemplated this man and what he had borne. To kneel by his side now and bend his head in prayer was more than he deserved. There were moments when he thought that he could see the light shine from Valjean's eyes; the goodness that was within him. He looked at him the way Valjean looked at the altar, and the statue of the Virgin that stood shining within the Lady Chapel, surrounded by light. Valjean could kneel and pray for hours, could lose himself in it. Javert, who had understood the laws of the church, who had always known it for an institution which had to be awarded the same respect as any superior, and which ought not to be questioned by the likes of him, still found himself beholding the cross and the priest with baffled disbelief. How was it that he, who had never shown mercy to anyone, was now shown compassion and grace?

It seemed beyond him. He could kneel and bow his head and contemplate what he had been given, as well as contemplate all the wrong he had done. But what Valjean found here was something else, and he wondered, when he watched Valjean raise his head, his soft, white locks shining in the light of the thousand candles that lighted Saint-Sulpice, what it was this man saw.

They had often talked in the evenings; Valjean was glad to read the Bible to him, and happier still to engage in long discussion, and even though those more often than not left Javert baffled and frustrated at his own lack of understanding, even greater was the frustration at the many, many years of error, and the deep despair at the realization that nothing could make up for wrongs that had been committed over a lifetime. And still, Valjean was glad to clasp his hand, and keep him close, and grace him with that slow smile that only now was beginning to give away its secrets to him: the deep weariness that hid beneath, the sadness.

In such a way, he had grappled with faith and mercy as Valjean had grappled with it long ago; and where another might read _The Lives of Saints_, he read the life of Valjean, soaked it up from his lips, read it with his fingertips in the scars that lined Valjean's skin, read it from the way he watched Valjean unfailingly give of himself.

How could he now despair at the things he had wrought in his past when it was Valjean who should have despaired long ago, but who walked this path of pain and loss God had set him with unfailing kindness and goodness?

Javert listened attentively to the priest's words. He sang praise with Valjean, and the _gloria in excelsis deo_ rested heavy in his heart. There they would remain, he thought, so that in time he could contemplate the words and pull them out for consideration with care during the long hours of meditation when he tried to make new sense of this life he had been given. And yet, when he looked at Valjean lost in prayer, he always felt that true understanding still eluded him. How could one win such grace? He doubted that even the priest had Valjean's understanding of goodness. But Valjean's grace was won through pain and grief; the parish priest, a gaunt, balding older man with a thin voice, who was kind as priests went, and who sometimes had moments of transcendence when he beheld the pulpit from which a predecessor had once proclaimed a refusal of the Civil Constitution of the Clergy, was still but a man, and lacked that inexplicable light Javert found in Valjean's face.

Valjean looked at the cross; Javert looked at Valjean. So each had found a way to fill their heart with faith, and he was not unhappy. It was a puzzling thing, but then, so was the entirety of this new life he had been given. The old clarity and purpose was gone, but as the new confusion was accompanied by the blessing of Valjean's presence and guidance, it was a state he had slowly learned to accept, and now cherished the time they spent in discussion of a sermon or psalm as much as he cherished the brush of hands or lips.

The church bells were still ringing through the cold, clear air when a flushed and breathless Cosette finally found them, Pontmercy, as always, close behind. She took Valjean's head, and, laughing, kissed his cheeks, then nodded her head at Javert.

"Come now, the Réveillon awaits! Certainly you will accompany us, Monsieur Javert? Our first Christmas together; all of us together, and healthy; oh, what a joy it will be!"

Javert found himself nodding when faced with such cheerful happiness. In truth, he would have much preferred the cold solitude of this winter night, shared only with Valjean by his side. And yet, through circumstances that still seemed impossible to him, he, who had been born outside society, and lived outside society, and should have died outside it, now had friendship; and had through that friendship acquired that beloved companion's family as well.

It baffled him still. Often, it frightened him; he of all people should have no place at the table of a bourgeois in the Marais! And yet, his life now revolved around this man, and through this man, his family. On this night of all nights, he could not take such company away from him, although he was certain that Valjean himself would have preferred to flee what promised to be a boisterous gathering.

"You must try the goose at least, monsieur, and the desserts! Thirteen desserts! For the twelve apostles, as is custom in the south. And I would not be happy if I knew that dear papa and Monsieur Javert had gone to bed without the bûche de noël tonight!"

Valjean was smiling at the two children. There was a helplessness in him as well, there always when when he was faced with Cosette's determination to share her joy, and Javert was glad that Valjean did not know how to say no to his daughter. Certainly they could bear an hour or two of food and wine, and then they would walk back home, and breathe freely in their shared solitude at last.

Cosette studied him thoughtfully, and Javert bent his head again, suddenly abashed. "It would be a great pleasure, Madame la Baronne."

Valjean did not know of it, but he had talked at length with Cosette, once he had recovered from the rapids of the Seine, and once Valjean had been forced out of his self-imposed misery. Javert had talked to Cosette about her mother, for he knew that Valjean would not – not about the parts that Javert needed her to know. Although he had spared Cosette much of the terrible events that had befallen Fantine, he had not spared himself. Cosette now knew that it was he who had ultimately been responsible for her mother's death, and unlike Valjean, whose unlooked-for mercy still left him feeling strangely unsettled at times, Cosette was not so quick to forget.

Strangely enough, it was a relief to find himself watched. He did not fully trust himself; neither did Cosette, and he was glad to know that he was being observed and judged, who had so long judged himself and yet done wrong all his life. Cosette would not allow him to do wrong by Valjean.

#

The Réveillion was a great and baffling vision of shining crystal and candles and platters of food after food, of glasses filled with wine and yet more wine, of laughter and cries of delight and conversation that rose in volume and happiness the more bottles were brought to the table.

As the hours passed, both Valjean and Javert in turn grew more silent when the din and excitement of the feast that surrounded them proved more wearying than the wine.

They stayed for the bûche de noël, an immense creation of chocolate rendered a stunning replica of a large log, down to the rough creases of the bark and leaves of colored marzipan, which rested on a bed of snow-white powdered sugar. The bark melted in the mouth with bitter sweetness. There had been wine enough that by this point, the feast around them had dimmed, and all he saw was Valjean, and all he felt was overwhelmed gratitude to have lived to be by his side.

He sought out Valjean's hand beneath the table and pressed it gently. For one moment, their fingers intertwined, and they ate their dessert and smiled at each other, two old men who did not belong in such a place and such a company, and were still learning grateful acceptance at such unexpected grace.


	2. Chapter 2

Cosette had wanted them to stay in the room that was always prepared for Valjean, and Javert would have been welcome to one of the many rooms that had been prepared for guests. But with the wine warm and heavy in their limbs, they knew without asking that they were filled with the same, simple need now: a moment of silence and shared solitude, and then to undress each other and fall asleep together, a thing that could be no great sin, but that they nevertheless could not share in another man's home.

They refused the carriage Pontmercy would have readied for them. He was distracted by the guests, and so it was no great feat to slip out unnoticed at last. Valjean pressed a coin into the porter's hand and gave him a smile, and then the gate closed behind them, and they were alone in the darkness of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. The streets were white, and in the light of the street lamps, the snow was dancing, falling more heavily now.

Everything was silent and white. Javert could taste the crisp cold on his tongue, biting at his cheeks, and smiled in delight. The snow muffled all sound and reflected the light of the moon, and he could not be happier than he was at the prospect of walking home through the cold by this man's side, secure in the knowledge that Valjean would take him to his bed as he had taken him into his heart, and that it was as it should be.

Valjean sighed deeply. He looked up and watched the falling snow. Javert watched him in turn, just as entranced to see the flakes land on his skin, frost his hair, his lashes. Then Valjean gave Javert a smile, that rare smile that filled his eyes with light and warmth and coaxed forth a similar light in Javert's chest. "Let us go home," Valjean said. Javert nodded.

They walked side by side. Every now and then, their hands brushed. Javert watched Valjean's breath turn into a white fog in the cold air.

Walking in silence beside Valjean as the snow continued to fall all around them was not unlike kneeling beside him in prayer. There was a holiness to this: the city blanketed by a gentle hand, buildings and streets and gardens alike vanishing beneath the thick layer of white that swallowed all sound.

They were walking alone; the streets were deserted, yet filled by light. The snow shone with the light of the moon and the stars above them, and the street lamps glowed with halos of bright warmth in which they could see the heavy snowflakes dance as they continued to fall in majestic, endless silence.

The only sound that could be heard was the sound of their boots on the fresh snow. It seemed as if the entire city was deserted; here and there, they saw brightly lit windows where families might still be feasting long after midnight.

Javert studied Valjean in the light of the moon. He seemed pensive and distant, but when Javert's gloved hand brushed his own almost by accident, warmth filled his eyes once more, and he curled his own fingers around Javert's.

"It's very cold," Javert said suddenly. Before them, in the small street that lead towards the quay, there were still lights. He thought a few of the wine shops might still be open for late stragglers, or still busy with revelers who preferred the company of strangers on this night.

Javert looked at Valjean again. The magnitude of what he had been given still overwhelmed him betimes and rendered him strangely shy; not towards Valjean, but towards this great force that had seen fit to reward his resignation not with death, but with life and company, and the trust of this one man whom he knew to be good above any other. He wondered if Valjean felt the same, and then thought of the pensive sadness in his eyes when he had watched Pontmercy share the bûche de noël with Cosette on one plate.

That sadness had vanished in a heartbeat when Cosette had looked up to enfold her papa in a look of such warm happiness that it had nearly embarrassed Javert once more to have attended their Réveillion, for he had no place in this small family which Valjean had bought at the price of his own happiness. By all rights Valjean should enjoy the love of this family, should spend his life in the Gillenormand household, watch children grow and call him grand-père and die at last surrounded by love.

What Valjean had instead was a hut in the garden of a house he dared not claim for himself. What he had instead was Javert, who would fall to his knees and swear his servitude or his soul if it was but asked of him. It was not, and so he had no right to offer it as another burden. He knew no other way to try and give this man the love he deserved by falling asleep pressed against him in their narrow bed, and shed all that society deemed good and moral for what the church would call sin, though his heart knew no word but _holy_ for what it felt like to press trembling fingers to warm skin and feel the strong heart-beat beneath.

These lips that could whisper his name with the same sweetness as they recited psalms or sang praise were incapable of sin. All his reading by Valjean's side had never given him a better answer than this. Perhaps he was a sinner still – but all Valjean had to offer was love. No priest or scripture would ever convince him otherwise,

Suddenly, he found himself loathe to see the night end. It was not that he did not look forward to the quiet and the familiar comfort of Valjean's small hut in the Rue Plumet. And yet, here in the cold, the fatigue brought on by the plentiful wine and the company had vanished again. He was no longer tired, and he was disinclined to see the night end quite so soon, especially now that he had Valjean's company all to himself.

"We could sit down inside for a moment for some wine," Javert said. He tried not to sound too hopeful. If Valjean was exhausted, he did not want to keep him up – but Valjean looked at the light that spilled out of the small wine shop in consideration, and then nodded.

In the warmth of the narrow room, the snowflakes that had come to rest on Valjean's hair quickly began to melt. It was very late, but even so, the subdued sounds of a party of revelers could be heard in a room upstairs. The cheeks of the proprietress were red with wine and merriment, and after they had reassured her that they would be happy with a single bottle of wine to share, she hastened away with steps already unsteady to join the revels upstairs once more.

Javert felt the warmth of the fire thaw his frozen cheeks. His lips relaxed in what was the closest he usually came to a smile, and he raised his wine in salute.

The wine was rich and heavy on his tongue with the tang of red berries and oak. It was not the fine vintage of the Gillenormand revel, but still much finer than what he would have expected in such an establishment. The downstairs room had barely enough space for four small tables; Javert thought that the wine and merry-making must have made the proprietress bring out better vintages than what would have been on offer had she been sober.

He watched as old, worn fingers that were still stiff from the cold took out a golden Napoléon and slid it towards the half-full bottle, to await the return of the landlady. Her generosity would not be to her detriment tonight, he thought. Aloud he said, "I wager you would be Père Noël to every soul tonight, were it possible."

Valjean looked up and studied him for a moment, then broke into one of his rare smiles. Javert gave in to that helpless need within him and reached out for one of Valjean's hands. He covered it with his own, larger one, and for a moment allowed the heat of his own skin to sink into Valjean's.

The light of the fire flickered. He drew his fingers along Valjean's fingers when there was no protest. They were strong hand, but marked by a life of hardship. He felt their roughness with his own fingertips, the small scars, the healed blisters, the callouses. He knew that if he drew his hand further upwards, he would be able to trace the scars left by the irons Valjean had worn for so long – but that was too sad a memory to conjure on this holy night. This was no night to burden Valjean with his own regrets, when Valjean had borne his own heavy burden for so long.

Instead, Javert stroked his fingers, rubbed with gentle pressure to help the blood circulate and encourage warmth to return.

It felt strangely intimate; perhaps because to do this in public still brought with it a strange thrill and a hint of fear.

But there was no need for fear. The proprietress was busy with the feasting upstairs; and should she return, they would hear her unsteady steps on the creaking stair long before they would be seen. Javert hummed under his breath, massaging hard, slightly swollen knuckles. Valjean held his glass of wine in his other hand; Javert kept his eyes on his hand and flushed a little. This felt too intimate for such a public space, and yet he could not keep himself from reaching out in such a way.

It was a need, to touch Valjean. He needed no more than this: the warmth of his skin, the soft sound of his breathing, the reassurance of fingers curling into his own. It was enough that Valjean allowed this, that he could coax stiff fingers to relax and drive away what aches the cold must have brought. It was as intimate as touching those warm, red lips with his trembling fingers to feel their heat, their softness, to feel the way Valjean's mouth could turn all his thoughts to sin with just a brush of those lips against his fingers. It was as intimate as clasping their hands, and falling asleep with their hands resting together over Valjean's heart, that steady beat singing him to sleep with its song of reassurance and comfort.

It was no wonder it made him flush, and yet he could not stop running his fingers very gently over Valjean's, returning what warmth he could with his touch, for it was still too difficult to put the warmth in his heart into words, despite the wine.

It was Valjean's sound of amusement that finally made him stop and look up.

"Javert!" Valjean said, eyes dark and warm and bright from more than just the wine. "Javert, it is but a coin I've left her."

Only now did Javert realize what he had been humming under his breath. He laughed a little despite himself; the sound was still rusty, as was his singing voice, although the wine had helped a little.

_"Dame qu'êtes à la fenêtre_  
_Faites moi la charité._  
_Entrez, entrez, mon bon pauvre,_  
_Un bon repas trouverez."_

Valjean looked at him. Javert did not stop singing, for the pleasure of seeing a smile tug at Valjean's lips was worth all embarrassment.

"Javert," Valjean chided again, although there was nothing but affectionate and slightly disapproving amusement in his eyes. "Come now, certainly that is blasphemy! It's but a coin, and we were hardly starving."

Javert's lips twisted into a rueful smile. "_Oh non, ce n'est pas la lune, sont vos grandes charités,_" he sang softly, and then fell silent, and looked down at the hand that was still held safely in his own. He drew it up then to his mouth and pressed a kiss to it.

"I no longer think it is charity," he said softly. "If you are still wondering that. What you do – what you are – was for so long beyond me. At first, I saw you as a saint, for I saw myself as the devil. How could it be different? But that thought led only towards death, and here in life, all thoughts seem to want to lead to..."

Javert hesitated for a moment. "To love. You do not want to hear how good you are; I tell you, Jean Valjean, I know no better man, and if you will not let me speak it, I will say it in other ways."

Valjean's throat moved slowly. Javert's eyes lingered at the way the silk of his cravat moved against his skin. After the Réveillion, and the long walk in the snow, it was no longer knotted as flawlessly as it had been. He imagined how he would pull it free with a priest's devotion once they reached the sanctuary of Valjean's hut. That was a sacrament, too.

"You should not say these things, Javert. Do you not know me yet? You, who have always known me? My tale is not one out of your Butler. I fear that one day you will realize that I am but a man, and then-"

"And then I will not love you? Impossible," Javert said and gave him a helpless smile, which he still feared looked more like a grimace. It felt like the muscles of his face had never learned the art of smiling; the smiles he liked best were the ones he could hide against Valjean's skin in the darkness of their room. He drew Valjean's hand to his mouth again; Valjean touched his lips with gentle fingertips, then curved his hand against his cheek.

"You are a fool, Javert," Valjean said tenderly. "Half the time I do not know what you think; half the time, you fret about things that make no sense."

"Well, they make sense to me," Javert muttered, pleasantly warm from the wine, so that he did not protest when those gentle fingers brushed through his whiskers.

Valjean made a quiet, pleased sound. His eyes were half closed; for a long moment, he simply sat there, stroking through the coarse hair with the pad of his thumb in tender circles.

"I am glad you were by my side today," Valjean said suddenly at last. "I do not know how I would have managed on my own. It is hard to see her so happy, and to know that she is no longer mine, when from the moment I carried her away from Montfermeil, I knew that as long as she was happy and by my side, I could face anything at all. Now she is happy, and it is no longer my doing. I am not needed anymore."

"Fool," Javert echoed softly. He stretched. Suddenly he ached with the need to get up and outside into the cold, to see the clear air strip away this melancholy from Valjean.

"You have seen her today. What do you imagine this day would have been like for her, had you not been there? She no longer needs you to fill all her days – but she still needs you. And also," he muttered, feeling foolish, "also you do not see me eye _her_ with jealousy, because you need her more than me."

He held up his hand when Valjean wanted to protest. "No, no, enough. Let me speak. Or rather, let me not speak; let us go; I am entirely too maudlin. This is embarrassing and frustrating."

Valjean studied him. At last he sighed very deeply and stood. "Let us leave then," he said, and there was a kindness in his eyes that made Javert ache with some of the old restlessness. He had never managed to run away from it. It drew him to Valjean as much as he feared it.

"Javert." Valjean's voice was a little stronger now, not quite sharp, and Javert flushed and ducked his head. Then Valjean's hand brushed his cheek again, chiding and reassuring at once.

They left before the proprietress could return, the Napoléon next to the empty bottle. Once they were outside in the cold air, where the snow was still falling heavily and unperturbed, Valjean took a deep breath, and clasped Javert's hand in his own.

"Let us go home," he said softly. "There is something I have been thinking about. Come. I think you are right, and I am as much a fool as you. But we have had enough wine that I can show it to you, and perhaps you shall not judge me too much if I should weep."

Javert raised his hand to briefly touch a white strand onto which a snowflake had settled. "If you weep, I would prefer to be with you," he said, and allowed his hand to linger in Valjean's as they walked through empty streets of the city filled only with snow and moonlight and their shared solitude.


	3. Chapter 3

There were no lights in the houses that lined the Rue Plumet, bar one where two windows were still brightly lit. It was hours past midnight now; Mass was over, the goose had been eaten, the bûche had followed, and all revelers were asleep now, or perhaps dozing in front of a fire over a last bottle of wine in the final house.

It was so quiet that it seemed to Javert that they were the only people still awake in all of Paris. The snow was still falling heavily, swallowing all sound. When they reached the old gate, and Valjean opened it to lock it again behind them, Javert took hold of Valjean's hand. The large house was dark and silent, and he looked at it for a moment before he allowed Valjean to lead them away into the overgrown garden. The thickets of bushes and flowering vines and old, bowed trees that turned the garden in spring and summer into a magical grotto of verdant greens and fertile soil stood still and frozen. The snowfall had turned plants into bizarre statues of white, and the garden seemed to him a fantastical grotto out of a fairytale.

How strange to think that this was where he had stood sweating in the summer, hands and arms dirty with soil as he helped Valjean plant new roses. How strange that here, they had kissed in the autumn, the leaves red and gold and falling around them, like the life in his own veins that felt the slow approach of age. And yet Valjean had caused the sap in his veins to rise, and the gnarled wood of his heart to split. How strange that he had thought this organ in his chest dead wood when the roots had always run deep and true, and had needed little more than the sunshine of Valjean's smiles and the careful tending of his gardener's hands to coax forth that tender, green shoot.

And now, it was winter, and all that grew had fallen into a deep sleep, blanketed by snow. Yet the flower in his heart that Valjean had tended to so carefully bloomed still.

He slowed. Valjean stopped, to see what had made him hesitate, and Javert looked at him, then turned to take in the silent, frozen garden gleaming around them in the light of the moon and the stars. His breath escaped in white clouds. Valjean's head and shoulders were dusted with snow. Javert reached out to brush his fingertips against his cheek, then moved even closer, silently, slowly, as if any sound would destroy the frozen sanctity of their solitary garden.

Their lips met. Valjean's mouth was very warm, and Javert shivered gratefully against him, eyes wide open so that he would remember this forever: the two of them, the perfection of the frozen garden, the thrill of kissing Valjean here, with the snow reflecting the light of the moon so that even without a lantern there was light enough to see everything clearly. For a moment, the frozen garden became a secret, magical place; the world outside had ceased to exist, and what happened beyond the boundaries of the snow-covered walls that surrounded them was of no importance.

This was the kingdom of his heart. Here, amidst the snow and ice, they stood: living, breathing men, warmed by the flame in their hearts.

The aches and pains of a growing heart seemed a small price to pay now, for he could see very clearly that just as Valjean had gently coaxed forth what withered sentiment and capability for goodness had remained shriveled and dormant in his heart, so in turn was the sap than ran thick and warm through his veins now needed to keep Valjean from joining the sleep of trees and flowers here in the garden. Without the warmth of his own unskilled touch, would Valjean not have remained all alone here, baring himself gladly to the heart of winter to join the long sleep of all that was green and living? And when spring would arrive at last, and the first tentative rays of the sun would melt the heavy blanket of white – what chance would there have been for Valjean to wake from his dormancy, and to stretch with new energy, and to reach out for love like a flower reaches out for the sun?

Javert looked at a gnarled tree covered by a heavy burden of snow and knew his answer.

He took another kiss from Valjean as price for this thing that should not be, and which yet might have so easily come to pass.

Valjean indulged him, as he always did, and when he drew back, the lines around his eyes crinkled as Javert received another tender smile for his foolishness. But who of us is the fool, Javert thought with hopeless love. Aloud, he said, "One day there will be children running in this garden, and they will call you grand-père."

The smile vanished from Valjean's face. Instead, his expression was searching. Javert realized that there was no way to retrace his line of thought without sounding like a sentimental fool. Instead, he breathed deeply, and took Valjean's hand once more.

"I am just reminding you not to let the house and the garden fall into disuse too much," he said more gently, and Valjean stiffened a little.

Javert had never brought the topic up before. After all, Valjean's hut was more than adequate. It was twice as large as the small chamber he had rented. He needed little more than that bed they shared there, so often that force of habit now made his feet turn right rather than left when he left the station house to go home.

Home was Valjean.

And yet the way Valjean denied himself all comfort made no sense. Charity and humility Javert understood. They were concepts he fought with, often, but his heart, once woken from its long slumber, could not unsee all that was good and right, and he felt the consequences now in the pangs of pain that accompanied every decision.

But there was no goodness he could see in Valjean's reclusiveness. There was a perfectly good house here. It belonged to Cosette; well! What daughter would want her father to freeze during cold winter nights when the house stood right before him?

Doubt was still new to Javert. And as much as he gave way to Valjean in their frequent conversations about morality and goodness, he never gave in without long discussion. These were concepts that returned night after night to grapple with him, and for every night that he would wrestle a doubt into submission, it would return again the following night.

To fight his own conscience was wearying. And yet, there was always truth in all Valjean had to say, and so each and every day anew, Javert would wrestle with himself once more. It was wearying, but it was also _to live_, and in the end it only raised his esteem of Valjean, who must have fought a similar fight for so many years and had never, unlike Javert, sought the easy escape behind the rigid walls of cold law that knew neither doubt nor forgiveness.

Valjean was nearly always right. That was a truth that throbbed in Javert's heart, not unlike the sting when he had gripped a rose-stem too tightly when weeding in the spring.

But in this one thing, Valjean was wrong.

Javert knew it as well as Cosette, and maybe better than her, he thought, for she loved Valjean unconditionally, absolutely. Javert loved Valjean as well, but he had not led a life as she had, who trusted in Valjean's choices too much, as perhaps a daughter should.

Javert loved, but he did not trust Valjean to know what was best for him. Valjean would add wood to the fire if Javert joined him in the evening; Javert supposed that Valjean forgot to do so when he slept without Javert pressed to him beneath the blanket. For too long, Javert had ignored the empty house; for too long, he had deferred to Valjean's folly, had thought himself grateful to have his company, his touch alone, and had thought himself in no position to ask for things that were above him.

And yet, the thought that Valjean should suffer cold simply because Javert was suited to a sparse life of little amenities beyond the necessary – that could not be humility. No, Valjean had sought to teach Javert goodness; Javert now used that new knowledge to judge himself, and found himself selfish. It was not enough to spend his nights with Valjean to ensure that Valjean would keep a fire going. There was a perfectly fine house with empty rooms and beds and tables and fireplaces. If Valjean was so humble, then he should also realize that wastefulness was a sin as well.

Javert reached out and smoothed a thumb along a brow dusted with white. More gently now, he said, "It is becoming rather too cold for the idyllic hut. When was the last time Paris had so much snow? Let us make a large fire. I am always stiff with the cold now when I wake in the mornings."

The wariness in Valjean's eyes made way for guilt. "Javert, you should have said-"

Valjean looked helpless. Javert thought, _let him wrestle with his own conscience, he who taught me this eternal fight with questions no man can answer_. Aloud, he said, for he could not bear the thought of Valjean in pain even now, "It is not so bad. But it is getting colder, and I am getting older. And if I ache in the mornings, so must you. But let us talk tomorrow."

"Yes, let us," Valjean said, his gaze searching and unsettled. "Javert, did you – I promise, I did not think you were in discomfort-"

Javert quieted him with the brush of his lips against his cold cheek, solely for the pleasure to do this out here in the bright light of the moon. "Tomorrow," he said, and took Valjean's hand to lead him inside.

They quickly built a fire. It did not take long until warmth filled the small hut. Javert took note of how Valjean added more wood; perhaps it would be bearable, he thought, to ask for comfort, if that meant that Valjean would be the one to enjoy the same comfort free of guilt. Javert had certainly never dreamed of living in a large house, of having bedrooms, drawing-room, library and kitchen at his disposal; of a garden large enough to wander freely, with walls high enough to do so in privacy, and even now the thought of just demanding such a thing made him uncomfortable.

And then he looked at Valjean, whose cheeks were reddened from the warmth now after the cold, and whose hair curled damply with the melting snow. Valjean would choose to spend the remaining years of his life here in solitude and coldness if left the choice, when he had earned this house and the money that had been used to purchase it for his daughter with the work that had benefited not only Valjean, but saved an entire town from poverty for a few short years.

"Are you happy?" Javert asked softly, then looked startled. He had not meant to ask such a thing. He did not even know where the thought had come from. But now that it was said, he pressed on. "I would be happy anywhere with you. I would gladly suffer by your side through cold and hunger and deprivation; as long as I had your company, I would be happy. But there is no need now for suffering. M. Madeleine earned his fortune with honest work. And even though he gave half his fortune to the town, to the hospital and the school, he would still wear a warm cloak in winter, and dine on the food his housekeeper prepared him, and had a warm house where he could live in comfort."

Javert took a deep breath. He had looked forward to slipping beneath the covers to press himself to Valjean's body and rest there against him in the quiet hours of the morning, but now that these things had been said, he could not take them back.

"It is not charity to deny yourself without reason. No one benefits from your denial. The house is empty and cold and will only fall into disrepair. Your daughter wants you to use it. She would return the gift of this house to you if you would let her, but as you will not, you should at least cause her no more grief."

"Grief?" Valjean echoed softly.

Javert tilted his head. In the light of the fire, he could see that there was a gleam in Valjean's eyes.

"How do you think she would feel to see you like this?" Javert reached out to touch a damp strand of hair that clung to Valjean's brow. His eyes lingered for a moment on the cravat. Valjean had taken off his coat, and now Javert's fingers ached to reach out and undo the knot, and breathe his own adoration against his throat.

"You gave her the house and your entire fortune as a gift, because you wanted to see her happy. How would you feel had she returned all of that to you, or refused to make use of it?"

Javert shook his head, a little bewildered. He did not know how to phrase these things so they would make sense to Valjean. "I am out of place at the Gillenormand Réveillion, and yet I went. I accept a glass of champagne from someone I call _Monsieur le Baron_ – I do not belong in that house and that company, and yet I go without protest, because it would cause you grief to sit next to your daughter and eat foie gras and goose stuffed with chestnuts and thirteen different desserts and know me alone and freezing in my small chamber. Do you see?"

Valjean slowly shook his head, clearly baffled. "No, I do not," he admitted after a moment. "Or perhaps I do. Javert, I'm not..." He fell silent, and Javert watched him try to gather his thoughts.

At last, very softly, he said, "Javert, whatever you might think, I am no martyr. You think too well of me now, as does Cosette. Perhaps that is only natural: I saved her from that place. I saved you from the Seine. But I am not a saint, nor was I ever truly that M. Madeleine who had all those things you listed. You of all people should know that."

"Yes, yes," Javert said, impatient now. "That was not your name, but everything else was true. I see it now: you were the same man then as you are now. You give, and it was only circumstance then that forced you to retain some comfort for yourself, for no one will do business with a mayor who chooses to freeze in a hovel in winter. Well then. Now you are the father of Madame la Baronne. You cannot reject your daughter's love, so this is who you are now. If you can give money to the hospital and the school, and yet live in your warm house in Montreuil, then you can also live here in this house that is waiting for you, in the warmth and the comfort you above all people deserve, and keep giving your coin to every gamin and beggar you encounter. Who benefits from denial now? The house is empty and unused. And I would go live with you in your apartment in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, if you would rather have that, but I have grown used to the garden, and I think you would miss it, too."

Valjean had been beautiful in the moonlight that had filled the frozen garden. Here, inside, in the light of the roaring fire, he looked older, worn in a way the gentle light of moon and stars had hidden from sight. Javert studied the lines around his eyes, the way the knuckles of his hand were still red from the cold when he reached out.

"I..." Valjean began, then fell silent again for a moment. When he continued at last, his voice was trembling a little. "I did not think it would cause pain to you or Cosette. But you know who I am. _You_ of all people, who has seen me in chains, who knows that even now, I should be wearing the green cap, should not sleep safely here in my bed with you warm against my skin, but should shiver on a hard plank with the weight of iron oat my ankle – Oh, Javert, how can I pretend and go and live in that house as if I were the master of it? To go to that Réveillion and drink and smile and yet know that everyone who shakes my hand would back away in revulsion, were they to see me in the chaingang? Can you, who has seen Toulon, not also see that this, _this_ small hut with its bed and its fireplace and its garden, is so much more already than I deserve?"

Javert made a sound of anguish. He did not know how, but he found himself pressed against Valjean without thought, could not even remember moving towards him, embracing him. Valjean's heart beat fast against his chest, his mouth was soft and warm as Javert pressed desperate kisses to it.

"Never, never!" he said, aching and groaning in dismay as he gripped Valjean's shirt so tightly that he feared it might tear. "Ah, good God, Valjean, I – no, no, never! I'd rather go and see you live with Cosette than remain in this cold hut, even though it would break my heart not to be- But here, you see, I am selfish; I am terrible still! Am I the one who is keeping you here with my greed for your love and your touch and your kisses? How can you think I can look at you and see-"

He choked at the very thought. To imagine Valjean thought him capable of such a thing! And worse, to imagine Valjean remembering that time, day in and day out, that time that should have never been, and telling himself that he deserved such torment rather than the love of his daughter and the comfort he had worked so hard for?

"If I could lift this burden from your shoulders, I would!" Javert said at last, and there was despair enough in his voice that Valjean cupped his face in his hands and held him so close that their breath mingled.

"You love me too much, Javert!" Valjean laughed, although the sound was sad. "And how strange to say such a thing, and mean it! Yet it is true. You love me too much, as does Cosette."

"Love is not earned, it is given!" Javert drew back a little then; Valjean's hand remained in his hair, pulled free a few strands from the ribbons that had held it bound back. Javert shook his head impatiently, then reached back to pull the ribbon free, the long, damp hair settling messily on his shoulders. "You gave me mercy and forgiveness, and I learned that such a gift cannot be denied. It can only to be accepted. And see, it is the same with love!"

He was agitated and flushed; he was embarrassed by the words that spilled free in a rush of overwhelmed emotion, loosened by the wine that even now warmed his limbs. But better to speak now and make a fool of himself than to think of Valjean remembering the chain and the shame he should never have suffered.

"We cannot love too much. We love."

Valjean looked at him for a long time in the light of the flickering fire. At last, he reached out, and buried his hand once more in Javert's hair. His eyes softened with affection. "And to think that you, Javert, are lecturing me now on love. No, do not make such a face. I am not mocking. Yet how strange the paths we have walked until God brought us here to this place, where we have each other!"


	4. Chapter 4

When Valjean turned away, Javert could see him take a deep breath. Then, Valjean stepped towards the narrow bed, and from beneath it, pulled out a valise.

"Cosette called it my inseparable," he said when Javert came to stand beside him. Valjean's voice cracked when he continued. "She said she was jealous of it. Those days..."

He raised a trembling hand to wipe at his face. Then he knelt down, and opened the valise, and with reverent hands pulled out a small, black dress. Javert watched in silence as it was spread out on the bed. Next followed a scarf; shoes; a vest; petticoats. All the clothes were handled with the same care Javert had seen Valjean use for the candlesticks, or his Bible. Then followed an apron, black as the rest of the clothes, and stockings.

Javert studied the outfit while Valjean arranged it. Those were the clothes of a child in mourning, tailored to fit a young girl. How old had Cosette been when Valjean took her from that inn?

He saw Valjean's shoulders shake. Valjean's worn hands reached out and gripped the black dress. His head was bowed, and then at last, Javert heard the sound of his sobs.

"She was so small, Javert," he said through his tears, "if you had seen her, those tiny feet in wooden shoes, all red from the cold as she walked through the snow! Her tiny hand in mine as I lead her away from that place at last! The way she smiled at me when she held her doll!"

Javert slowly knelt down behind him and wrapped his arms around him as Valjean wept.

"So many years, and I cannot forget the chillblains on her tiny fingers. So pale and thin she was from hunger! And now she is gone, when for so long she was the sun for me, and I thought I could be happy and content forever in this house as long as she was here with me and filled the garden with her play and her laughter!"

Javert rested his face against Valjean's shoulder. "She loves you still," he said softly. "She will always love you, more than you know. How could you think your past would frighten her?There is nothing you need to be ashamed of. I assure you, had she seen Toulon in all its cruelty, she would hate _me_ for my part in your unhappiness."

Valjean buried his face in his hands and sobbed for long moments. Javert held him, and at last Valjean turned around and wrapped his arms around him. They held each other.

"All that is gone," Valjean said softly, after long moments had passed. He was no longer weeping, but his eyes were tired, and he seemed to carry the full weight of his sixty years now. Javert smoothed careful fingertips over his wet cheek.

"For so long, I thought she was all I had. And when I found that letter she had written to the boy, when I dragged him through the sewer – I thought that if he would live, I would lose her, and then lose all joy. It seemed natural, in a way. Summer had come for her; winter had come for me. It would be over at last, and perhaps God would not judge me too harshly and finally grant me peace."

Javert swallowed thickly. He found he could not speak. Valjean closed his eyes and tilted his head forward, until their brows touched.

"And yet, here I am in my winter, and God has given you to me instead and reminded me not to be ungrateful for the joy that remains to me still. Forgive me, Javert. There is beauty out there in the snow, and though the sun is shining on a different garden now, I have gained the moon and the stars instead. You ask me if I am happy. I am happy. I am also sad. I do not think I can promise that one day, I will feel only happiness. But I can promise you that there are no days now when I feel only sadness."

Javert allowed his fingers to trace the lines on Valjean's face again. There were creases around his eyes and his mouth, and Javert wondered how many had been caused by joy, and how many by sorrow.

It was warm now, and Valjean was breathing slowly. There were no more tears, and Javert thought that now was the time to unravel his cravat, and unbutton his shirt, and take him to bed so that he could wrap him in the warmth of his own skin. Instead, his eyes fell on the small valise again, and he saw that there was more hidden inside. Valjean followed his eyes, and another shadow seemed to come over his face for a moment. But then he straightened, gently extricating himself from the embrace, and reached out to pull the valise closer.

What had looked like small, misshapen blocks of wood were now revealed in Valjean's hands to be crudely painted, carved figurines. There was an ox. There was a shepherd. There was the holy family, and what had to be one of the Magi.

"Cosette painted them. That first year in the convent... Fauchelevent did not have a crèche, you see," Valjean said almost in apology. "So I carved our little santons, and Cosette painted them. Ah, you should have seen it; the little lambs she made from wool; the star we painted gold and hung over the stable!"

He took another shaky breath and rubbed at his eyes. "I kept them, you see, fool that I am. I kept them all these years, although in time, we made finer figurines when one would break, or when Cosette grew embarrassed at her lack of skill all these years ago, or when she saw an angel with wings made from white feathers in a shop..."

"But you kept these first figurines," Javert said, and Valjean gave him another sad smile.

"Not all of them, as you can see see. We have no angels, and no donkey, and only one Magi. And none of her little sheep survived the year one of the convent's cats got into the hut."

Javert covered Valjean's hands with his own and looked down at the figures he was cradling so carefully. Much of the paint had flaked off. The shepherd's arm was splintered. He carefully probed the feelings that arose within him. Was this jealousy?

No, he decided after a moment. It was impossible to feel envy when Valjean had known so little happiness in his life, and deserved so much more than what he had found. Yet still, how strange to kneel here beside him and look at the remnants of the few moments of happiness Valjean had found, and to realize that although he had gone without all of his life and never felt the loss, now his living, beating heart ached with a strange sadness.

What need had he had for a crèche of his own? He had no family; he went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, like any good citizen, and then returned to his small chamber to sleep, and wake, and leave for work. He had never even considered such a thing, which seemed like a frivolity for a bachelor. It belonged to that mystery he could have no part in; he was without society, and this was a thing that belonged to those within: the men who owned a house or had a trade, who raised a family, who spent Christmas Eve together and displayed their crèche in the drawing-room for the children to marvel at.

It was not jealousy, he thought with sudden wonder. It was the pain of realizing that here was something he had thought he would go without for all of his life, and yet it had never been unattainable. Here it was held out to him in offer, and all he had to do was bend his head and accept it with the humility of one who knew that he did not deserve such a blessing, and that it was his regardless.

"Cosette took the others with her, the ones that were still beautiful and bright with color." Valjean smiled now, although his eyes remained sad. "The Gillenormands have their own crèche. You must have seen it: their display would not even fit into this room. The finest santons from Marseille, and much admired tonight."

Javert nodded. The display had been impossible to miss, and had been impressive indeed.

"But Cosette took ours with her, and keeps them in their bedroom-"

"-and in time there will be children," Javert said softly, "and she and Pontmercy will have their own crèche to display. She will tell the children that grand-père Fauchelevent carved them with his own hands, and they will look at you in awe with bright eyes and beg you to carve them horses and soldiers and knights to play with in the garden. That is how it will go."

Valjean closed his eyes and leaned against Javert, although a reluctant smile had grown on his lips. He was silent now, and then, after a moment, he said, "The old crèche is still in the house. It will be cold there, but – do you want to see it?"

"Yes," Javert said, almost before Valjean had ended his sentence. "Yes. It is Christmas; let us find a home for this family, on this night of all nights."

Silently, they put on their warm coats once more. Outside, it was still snowing, and when they entered the larger house, it was eerily silent, and the sound of their steps echoed through the rooms. The light of the moon fell in through the windows when Valjean drew back a curtain in the large drawing-room, and dust danced in the cold light while the snow was still falling in heavy flakes outside. It was very cold, and their breath escaped in pale clouds.

Carefully, Javert took hold of the figurines, and watched as Valjean knelt down before a chest of drawers. From the back, Valjean pulled forth the crèche – Javert looked at it, studied the slightly crooked branches, and imagined Valjean patiently building the small stable in the convent on a winter's eve, at peace and content to know himself hunted no more.

Specks of dust danced in the light of the moon as Valjean set the crèche down on top of the chest. He smiled as he looked at it, and Javert felt a pang in his heart when he realized that this smile was not meant for him, but brought on by memories of a time he had not shared. Then he chided himself. It should give him joy, and not pain, to know that Valjean had known happiness as well.

He stepped a little closer, and when his shoulder brushed against Valjean's, Valjean looked up. The smile remained on his lips, and this time, Javert knew that it was meant for him.

"How strange to desire to share this with you, when it was your pursuit that brought me to seek sanctuary in the convent in the first place," Valjean murmured, and took the figures from Javert's hands. He was still smiling as he knelt down and began to carefully arrange them: the shepherd outside the stable, the Holy Family within, the ox next to the manger, then the waiting, solitary Magi, and at last, the infant.

For a moment, Javert felt the familiar stab of the guilt he still carried. But how could one ask for forgiveness for a lifetime wasted? And then, had not Valjean already forgiven, and would it not be wrong to spoil the sanctity of this moment with memories of pain?

Valjean had always forgiven too easily, Javert thought as he watched him place the tiny, carved infant into the manger. It had lost most of its paint but still retained its swaddling clothes. Valjean's fingers trembled slightly. Javert exhaled deeply and watched his breath turn to fog.

Perhaps Valjean had always found it so easy to forgive because Valjean had never forgiven himself.

Javert knelt down next to him and bent his head. Valjean's hands were clasped in prayer; he clasped his own around them and warmed the beloved, worn fingers with his own. The room was cold and silent. There was no star above the stable, and no angel to speak his _Gloria in altissimis Deo _. But the moon shone so brightly about them that Javert was certain that the remaining Magi and shepherds would find their way to the stable eventually.


End file.
